He was a monster, and his name was Bill. He was huge, with large bulging muscles, and red, wavy hair. His eyes were cold and heartless, and his lips would curl sardonically. He looked intimidating, and hardly ever spoke. Everybody hated him, and everybody feared him. Everybody, except me.

At first, I was completely indifferent towards Bill. I didn't care whether he was a fiend; whether he sang or not; or whether he even existed. I knew all about him, of course. Rumour flies quite quickly here. They said that he was an assasin, and perhaps, was the best there was. But unlike other assasins, Bill didn't kill men or women. No, he killed children. The only son of the sultan of Dhabi, the daughter of a rich swiss buisnessman, the 6 month old baby of an aristrocrat in Prussia, and George Bush senior's imbecellic little boy, George Bush junior - he had killed them all. This was why Joe, and the rest of them, hated him. To kill men and women, to rob, to sabotage, to sell fire-arms, all this was acceptable. Even rape was not frowned upon. But killing innocent children - well, only a sick bastard would do to that.

And apart from being sick, Bill was also extremely violent Yesterday, he had broke the arm of a janitor who had gone to clean his cell. The day before, he had broken the nose of an inmate who, it seems, had looked at him disrespectfully. He was now kept in isolation, and made funny faces at the people who delivered his food. His was due to be hanged in a week, and yet he engages in the most childish trivialties. Hmm... perhaps he was mad.

But Bill's mental condition was not my concern. I had other pressing problems; like the warden standng just outside my door.